


First Times

by Thatsageperson



Category: Women's Soccer RPF
Genre: F/F, First Time, I wrote this for 14 year old me that's the truth, Mild Smut, allll the first time stories, but this is entirely about sex do not get me wrong, guess which one is the best lmao, only a lil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2020-10-01 21:31:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20411284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thatsageperson/pseuds/Thatsageperson
Summary: Four times Tobin has a first time. If you know what I mean ;)Also! Tobin!ADHD AU, because I have adhd.





	First Times

one. 

The first time you have sex with someone is… hard to define. 

The person is clear. The time frame (in weeks) is easy to recall, but you find yourself in the future telling a canned story of the events. You’d never realized growing up that your first time is memorable not because it was a particularly momentous occasion in your life, but because the stories of lost virginity are often shared around tables late at night with drunk teammates trying to out-do each other. 

The story you tell is a moment that you recall with utmost clarity: the first time you did… _stuff_ whilst completely naked with your first girlfriend freshman year at UNC. 

The way you tell the story is pretty simple— you knew your roommate was out of the room for the rest of the night, so you invited _the girl_ over for a “sleepover” (you both knew what you intended). Clothes were shed quickly and she ended up sitting on your lower bunk with your head between her legs. However, there was one crucial item of clothing that you had forgotten to remove. You still were wearing your freaking socks, and your dumbass decided the best position to accomplish the task at hand was to put your hands on either side of her waist to support your upper body, and your feet were behind you, supporting the entirety of the rest of your body weight. What happened? Your sock adorned feet relentlessly slipped on the carpet beneath you. You’d bring your foot forward so you wouldn’t fall, and when that foot inevitably slipped your other would come forward, and you spent the majority of the time eating her out with your legs slowly running in a vain attempt at staying stable. 

You learned that night that sometimes it’s okay to be on your knees. 

You and her had been dating for about three weeks, and every time you made out hands were pushed a little further up shirts and a little lower on waists. You remember the first time you touched her beneath the belt, and you remember that afternoon, but you don’t exactly remember when it happened or if it even counted as your first time.

A stroll around campus in the middle of the night had resulted in a couple of heated make out sessions on benches not positioned under the yellow glow of the street lamps by the pathway parallel to your dorm. Eventually you whispered in her ear, “we could go to my car?” It was parked in the garage close by, but the overhead lights were on and you knew cops patrolled the parking garage every so often looking for stoners on the top level. 

No clothes were fully removed that night, but your hand did end up down her pants, touching places that you had only felt on your self. 

You were no stranger to how to make yourself feel good, so you understood the basic technicalities of what you should do to make her feel that way. You found her clit with ease (and thought of all your straight male friends who complained about that very nub probably not existing at all). 

When your fingers drifted lower between her folds, your heart started racing, because it felt hot and wet and you didn’t normally touch yourself this way but wasn’t this what you were supposed to do? Wasn’t all of the hub-bub about actually going inside of her? 

But, you can’t remember if you actually did penetrate her because your memory kinds of fades out there, except for your knowledge that you googled “what does it look like when a women orgasms” after the deed had been done. 

That moment wasn’t much more significant than that, because when you thought about that moment and compared it to the stories you’d heard from your guy friends, that was just foreplay, and it seemed most people experienced early in high school and quickly forgot. Where was line? What was virginity and not for lesbians? 

That was why things were complicated. When you were 13 and talking with your best friend (that you were undoubtedly in love with) about how “you didn’t know how lesbians had sex,” you really were confused. You were naive then, _of course_, but when the moment finally came and went for the first time, it was drowned in the heteronormative degradation of two vagina bearing persons having sex. 

That memory of your first time touching another woman was lost by the locker room talk of your mostly male friends that denounced the connection as “foreplay,” and the comment from her creepy, sexist uncle two months later when he said that she’d probably grow out of her “gay phase” when she finally had “real sex”. 

You don’t even remember the first time she touched you. Well, that’s not entirely true, because you remember that you faked it. 

Not for the first time in your life did you feel your mind wander at an inopportune time. Often you were able to mask the fact that your mind was not where it was supposed to be. In conversations you’d drift off and miss what people were saying to you, and have to fake a response that seemed to fit in context. It worked most of the time. The circumstance of the first time she touched you was no different. 

Except, instead of just answering by nodding an encouraging smile or letting your response to a statement be a brief hum that hopefully showed you were listening, you faked the feeling of tensing up so much that your thighs shook, and your mouth released sighs that hopefully showed contentment, and you tightened your grip in her hair when it seemed like enough time had passed. 

It felt like dishonesty. The justification behind your decision wasn’t even clear to you at the time. 

You dated her for 10 months, and in that time you went through a journey of understanding your sexual preferences that was often filled with shame. Why? Because your drifting mind was repeatedly the cause for you feeling unable to finish, despite the fact that what your girlfriend, who you were supposed to love, was doing what was supposed to feel good. 

When she put three fingers inside of you and fucked you senseless, it didn’t explicitly feel bad, but it didn’t feel great and your mind was 50 miles away thinking about how you could have made the PK in that game in high school that you definitely _should not_ have been thinking about. 

You never really told her when things didn’t feel all that great. For all of the confidence that you could bring to the field, you found it easier to just let her continue what she was doing and not bring it up after, instead of simply speaking the truth of the situation. After all, if things weren’t _really_ engaging with her at any given moment during sex, there was a very likely possibility that you wouldn’t be able to remember what she had been doing that you didn’t like because you had been thinking about something completely irrelevant. 

At the end of your relationship, the sex wasn’t bad by any stretch of the measure. You learned each other over the 10 months and she could make you finish fairly regularly, but your mind still drifted to places you wished it wouldn’t, mostly because it just wasn’t helpful. 

two.

Alex broke your heart. She had ripped it out of your chest and absolutely demolished on the ground beneath her all too skilled feet.

Alex had given you one night. One night that you would never forget. You were both drunk and your insides fluttered and your heart beat against your chest, but for some reason the first kiss wasn’t quite as sweet as you thought it would be. When she asked you to touch her down… _there _after making out on her bed in your shared hotel room for the very first time, you were shocked but went with it, figuring that the moment was your dream. When she moved her hand in between your arm and her body, you thought, “Well that makes it pretty hard to do this," and then she spoke the word “stop” and you backed away like you had touched fire.

When she kissed you to soothe the worry in your brow and then said she’d rather try doing you, you were more than shocked. 

You were no stranger to sleeping with girls who were just trying out the whole lesbian sex thing (because it's the best and science has _proved_ that).They just wanted you to fuck them better than their past boyfriends, and honestly you were fine with that. They almost never returned the favor, and you weren’t a fan of having to pretend your mind was on the subject anyway, so you would go down on them better than anyone they had ever slept with before, and they didn’t need to know that their standards were so low you could turn on mental autopilot if your mind started to drift (and it often did). 

You could always tell if you were just a college experiment or an actual venture into self exploration based on whether or not they desired to attempt to make you finish. Sure, you weren’t making out with Alex with the assumption that she was 100% straight, but it was still surprising that she wanted to fuck you first when you were 99% certain she had never done this with a girl before. 

She didn’t know what she was doing while she did you, and you wouldn’t have expected her to. You learned long ago that it was more disrespectful to fake it then to just stop someone, so you told her to stop when you knew you wouldn’t be able to come and you were too frustrated with yourself for that fact to keep going. 

Per usual, your mind wasn’t where it needed to be in the situation, and the fact that Alex wasn’t exactly skilled with her ministrations wasn’t helping. 

She looked hurt for a while after she stopped, and you couldn’t help but be a little pissed off. She had stopped you earlier after literally _asking you to go down on her_, a fact that she seemed to have conveniently forgotten. Not to mention that you were beating yourself up even more for the fact that you couldn’t finish when the girl that you’d been in love with for _forever_ was touching you exactly where you wished she would in only your most private dreams. 

Your straying mind had yet again betrayed you in a moment that you should have been permanently engraving into that very mind. 

When she told you it was a mistake, you contained your anger until you were on the field hurling soccer balls into the back of the net. You were pissed and absolutely melted down on the green, but you channeled the energy behind your tears into your attacks at the ball, and you got it out the only healthy way you knew how. 

Punching walls as a teenager definitely hadn’t improved your health, or anything else in your life_._

three. 

When you and Shirley started dating, you knew that things were very different from your first relationship from the get go.

Shirley found you in a bar in Paris when you had replayed what happened with Alex over in your head too many times to count, and your stomach was sick with remorse. She comforted you through the pain, and what started as an evening talking about Alex ended with you in her apartment innocently falling asleep cuddling. The next morning, though, she woke up on your chest and her lips were six inches away from yours. You felt your mouth go dry (a feeling that you had read about but had shockingly never experienced before kissing someone… it actually confused you at first), and you didn’t dare move. 

Shirley kissed you that morning, and honestly, she was probably better at sex than anyone you’d slept with before, but you didn’t consider that a high bar and it didn’t make you forget about Alex. 

Or anything else. 

A familiar sense of undesired escape filled your mind, and you fought it to bring you back down earth as much as you could because _jesus christ it felt amazing why couldn’t your brain just fucking stop. _

Why couldn’t your thoughts just be on the situation in front you? Why did fantasies that worked every time you got yourself off always inevitably get paused repeatedly in the middle for an interruption about shit like why the penny should be eliminated from currency, or where you could get supplies for the new art medium you were deep dive learning, or how you could probably do better in your next game if you worked out this specific muscle group at the gym. 

She curled her fingers into you in such a way that made a line of heat go straight from her fingers to your fucking _soul_, and yet, your mind was still fighting for presence and frustrated with itself for doing so. 

She didn't make you finish, and only stopped after what felt like an hour of her trying different movements with her fingers or adjustments of her well versed tongue. You were grateful when she told you, "Sex is not about making the goal, it is about enjoy the build up." She didn't judge you for not finishing, as long as you enjoyed what she was doing while she was doing it. 

Admitting that you liked her led to more nights passing out at her apartment, and more mornings of her learning how better to bring you down from your perpetual clouds. 

You dated her for longer than you’d ever dated anyone before. Your parents and friends all thought that you were going to marry her, but you felt like you stayed with her mostly for the wrong reasons. It was easy and comfortable to be with Shirley. The conversation flowed well, and if you fought the sex after was amazing, so you booked flights back to see her as often as you could because you knew your doubts would always go away if you could just spend a little more time with her. 

Eventually the joy of joy of being around her stopped outweighing the frustration you felt with her when you weren’t together. No matter how many times you would talk about your issues or you'd try to respectfully inform her if something annoyed you, other stuff still came up. 

It was mostly little things. She would send passive aggressive texts when you would tell her you were hanging out with friends instead of spending your entire Saturday night on facetime with her. You’d forget a goodnight text here and there and she’d freaked out. You would hang out with a couple teammates and she’d ask unnecessarily ask who was single and who wasn’t, “just so she knew”. 

Little things that would prompt fights that ended up not being little things. 

After one too many little things, you didn’t even give her the opportunity to call and yell at you about it, because she knew you were done the minute she picked up facetime and saw the look of utter apathy in your eyes. 

You visited her once more after that. She had begged you for a second chance, and you returned to France for a final visit where you had more sex than you probably had had in the past year. That didn’t heal the resentment you felt towards her for the way you were starting to realize she had treated you, and it really didn’t do anything to rid the mental images of the girl you had been non stop texting for the last month from your unwanted mental escape’s atmosphere. 

You had no issues finishing every single time she fucked you, because your mind was so far away that it had focussed on only one single thing. You weren’t ready to admit to yourself what you were feeling but you also knew that you had absolutely no control of your thoughts. 

Shirley and you didn’t stay together after that visit concluded. 

four. 

You started texting her regularly as soon as you broke up with Shirley for the first time. It wasn’t a conscious decision, and you honestly didn’t even talk about Shirley much with Christen, but you found yourself with a lot of free time and mental space after you ended your relationship. You were so done by the end that you realized you had gotten over Shirley long before you snapped the official twig. 

When you were with Shirley, you spent your often limited free time worrying about making sure you texted or called her because you didn’t feel like fighting that night. If you weren’t trying your hardest to please her, you were pissed off that you couldn’t and doing things just to piss her off, or rather, in spite of pissing her off.

Hanging out with friends was laced with a touch of an ulterior motive, just because you knew Shirley would be jealous. 

Without her in your life, every moment was an opportunity waiting to be filled, and you sought the things that made you happiest in every detail of your activities.

All your spare attention was thrown into random hobbies that you had started in high school when you were single and not finding yourself as a regular attendee of clubs with women questioning their sexuality. You hadn’t really wanted to sleep around after things ended with Shirley. You just wanted to hang out and do things that made you happy, like piano, and art, and reading. 

You also wanted to talk about those things, because they excited you.

Christen’s number had been in your phone for years, but when you saw a meme about her speedy running on instagram, you couldn’t resist sending it to her. It made you giggle. She responded and asked you what you’d been up to, and your giddiness over the fact you had finished the Rubiks cube for the first time since your senior year of high school spilled out into the conversation. 

The conversation didn’t stop. 

She read your multi-paragraph long rambles about random shit and would ask you questions, or respond with paragraphs of her own. She took note of the things that interested you, and for some reason she seemed to care about all of your random interests that your parents had shamefully deemed “phases” as you were growing up. 

Those hobbies and interests never left, they just moved over as soccer and interpersonal life became the only two things worth devoting time to. 

Alone time, however, was healing and gave room for exploration of those long forgotten “phases” and the excitement that you felt over reigniting your childlike curiosity with the world was shared daily with Christen. 

You found her thoughts about your thoughts to be some of the most interesting analyses you’d ever had the pleasure of reading. You didn’t complete the vast majority of reading assigned to you through out your education, but if Christen wrote a novel in response to any of your comparably illiterate midnight rambles, you’d happily read the whole damn thing. 

As the weeks wore on, your conversation moved from your daily activities into learning about each other’s lives, and you absorbed every word of her messages with a clarity and focus you only ever felt with a ball between your feet. 

Reading long texts from people could be hard sometimes. You often had to reread them a few times through because your eyes would bounce around trying to get to the end. It wasn’t uncommon for you to read texts bottom to top because you were a little too impatient to get to the end of it. Christen’s paragraphs read like the fantasy novels that could engage you when any other piece of writing couldn’t. 

There was something about the way she saw the world. It was compelling. It was attractive. It drew you in, wanting more. 

When you look back on the way you fell in love with her, you know that it was because of her beautiful brain. It was the way that you connected over shared ideas and slight debate. She kept offering surprises, and would make comments that showed you the depth of her intellect as well as the deceptiveness of her sometimes shy and quiet nature. 

She was fiery. She caught you off guard. Your thoughts were often so fast it felt like you could predict most of life’s moves, but Christen changed the game. You never knew what she would say to your messages, but you always wanted to. 

Her intellect was attractive as hell, and left you waiting with bated breath for her every thought. 

The first time you slept with her, you waited with bated breath for her every move. 

For the first time in your life, the sex you shared with Christen that night kept you in the moment for the entire time. 

She had never slept with a girl before, but that night wasn’t similar in any way to what you had shared with Alex years prior. Instead, when Christen told you she was ready in your apartment in Portland, it wasn’t after the first kiss, and you weren’t doubting her intentions. 

After the first kiss, Christen had whispered “finally” against your lips, and she pressed her hands firmly around your shoulders to tell you that she wasn’t about to let you go. It had taken a while after the final trip to see Shirley for you to actually get up the nerve to make a move, but long texts about random thoughts had since turned into regular flirtatious banter and even though you were oblivious you weren’t _that _oblivious. 

The first kiss was actually many, because you couldn’t stop kissing her once you had started. 

The first kiss, was spectacular, but the first _time _was even better. 

That time, Christen was kissing you on your couch in the living room, and your thoughts were caught up with the way that she had pulled you in closer to her with her hand in your hair. Her fingers had fisted tight against the back of your head and her lips pressed against yours with ever increasing vigor and urgency. 

She stood up slowly and put her hand into yours, and shushed the “are you sure” that fell out of your anxious lips with a calm kiss and a reassurance of “I’m ready”. 

She pulled you into you bedroom and kept her hand in yours and she laid back on your bed. For a moment, you just looked at her, laying on your bed fully dressed and wanting for you to touch her. 

She’d slept with other people of course, but only guys, and you were terrified that you wouldn’t be good enough for her and wouldn't do the things in exactly the way that she wanted. 

Those thoughts slipped away and shirts and bras were removed, and soon your only thoughts were those of wonder and the sight before you. A sight of which you had explicitly dreamed, and the thought of that gave you butterflies in your chest and made your breath heavy before you had even laid back on top of her to continue your slow trail of kisses down. 

You’d never let yourself look at her with the kind of lust that you currently knew was residing in your eyes in the circumstances where you otherwise could have seen the sight before you. Christen without a shirt, changing in locker rooms, or where ever else. You didn’t want to violate her privacy and get a glance of something she wasn’t ready for you to see. 

But she had told you she was ready not minutes before, and you knew that this sight was only shared for you. 

You stopped and whispered in her ear, “I should go wash my hands,” and you found that you didn’t have a clean hand towel in your adjacent bathroom after you had done just that. However, wet hands had never stopped you before. 

You dragged your fingers across her skin when you returned, and moved your upper body over her to blow cool air across the trails of water that you left on her neck… and then her chest… and stomach… only stopping when your lips were at the waistband of her jeans and your fingers were moving to the button. 

Wiggling out of jeans while laying back against a bed isn’t always the easiest task, but when Christen dug her heals into the mattress and lifted up her hips to help you, the task was more graceful than other clothes-removing-encounters you’d had in your life. 

When she was completely undressed you kissed all the places you guessed were most sensitive on her, but you didn’t find yourself leaving your pressed lips against her for any reason other than to simply watch how she reacted. Often it was at this time your mental auto-pilot would engage, and a series of movements in which you had practiced time and again came from you with your permission but without your command. 

With every gasp that fell from her lips, another rush of butterflies would release in your stomach and you would feel the heat rise to your cheeks, because _you were making her do that._

It was so easy to let your actions fall into routine when you slept with people, and even with your past relationships you often found yourself doing the same thing over and over again because you knew that it worked. With Christen, you would have been surprised if what you were doing didn’t work, but you weren’t performing a well rehearsed routine shared only for her benefit. Instead, you were just as invested in every movement you made, because it expanded the catalogue of her reactions that you logged in your mind, ready to replay whenever you found yourself in utter disbelief. 

The “finally” that she spoke after you kissed her for the first time had been a memory that you replayed frequently in the weeks between your first kiss and your first time. You knew that night in your apartment, when you kissed back up her body and your lips pressed against hers, that the sound she released as your fingers slipped through her was something you would never forget. 

Your middle finger moved from the base of her folds towards her clit, and you found it without any difficultly before you moved back down about a centimeter to repeat the slight vertical motion, making her fucking _mewl_. 

Most women seemed to prefer an up and down motion against their clit rather than small circles, in your experience. But that didn’t stop you from wanting to try every little motion that you had learned and discover her every response. 

After flicking up and down gently with very little pressure against her, you pressed your finger more firmly and watched and she squirmed beneath you. For once in your life, you were completely present in the moment. There wasn’t another thought in your head because she was an all consuming fire of engagement. 

A fact that you don’t often share with many people is that first time you touched her, you didn't make her come. 

It was something you found people weren’t often willing to admit, but despite your practice in the area with other people, every body was different and you were still learning her. You didn’t know exactly what she liked. You didn’t know where exactly you needed to press your tongue to make her finish, and she stopped you when she was so close that she could do it herself because she _did _know exactly how to get there. 

That sight made your eyes probably burst straight from their sockets. 

Your lungs stopped respirating and your heart stopped beating because Christen Press, the girl that you were undoubtedly madly in love with, was shaking and _moaning_ right before your eyes, and sure, it wasn’t your fingers against her making that happen but it was still happening because of everything that had led up to that moment. 

It was still happening because of you. 

When she had come down from her high, she kissed you with a whispered “wow” against your lips. 

She hadn’t made you finish either, but she had shocked the hell straight out of you when she flipped you over, pulled your pants off of you, and wasted no time in putting her tongue straight through you. 

You were certain you had never slept with a girl that had never slept with another girl and had her go straight down on you before trying anything else. Fingering was more comfortable, more like getting yourself off, but apparently Christen had been awaiting this moment herself because she knew exactly what she wanted to do to you. 

Your heart beat fell into triplets as she moved against you, and even if she didn’t know what she was doing, it felt _amazing_ because _she _was doing it. 

You didn’t fake it, but you weren’t frustrated when you couldn’t finish because she muttered in your ear, “guess I have more things to try _next time_,” and you couldn’t even move let alone think any thoughts including the normal frustration you felt with yourself in situations like this. 

She wasn’t just taking your mind off of things as was the purpose of most of the many other sexual encounters you’d had in your life. She was making the thoughts you oft chastised yourself for having a reality, and even your evil, scattered brain intent on betraying you in every moment was weak to the all encompassing thoughts of her. 

Somehow, things only got better from there. 

**Author's Note:**

> So um, basically I've been reading fanfiction for many years, since before I started having sex. I lost my virginity at 14, and I've slept with a fair amount of people since then (I'm 19), and what I've experienced and what I've read are not congruent. Just wanted to put into words some things about the realities of having sex that I wish I could have read.
> 
> Also my adhd has been a thing that has caused me emotional distress throughout the years, especially with regard to my sex life. It can be really hard to focus! I just thought my brain was broken, and the reality is that would fact would dawn on me when I was getting laid and then I'd get angry with myself and that... did not help things. Turns out the first time you sleep with someone who really blows your mind, it ain't so hard to focus anymore. But that doesn't mean you finish the first time someone fucks you. I've never finished the first time I slept with someone, even my girlfriend who I love very very much (and was a virgin the first time we slept together). 
> 
> Thinking about posting a second chapter about Tobin getting diagnosed and what it's like to sleep with someone you've been dating a while (because hooooooo boy let. me. tell. you.. it's the best). Lmk if that is something y'all would be interested in. Thank you for reading!!!!
> 
> If you wanna talk to me go the-gay-tm.tumblr.com, and thatsageperson.tumblr.com for my personal which has soccccerrrr content (I run a strictly main meme blog).


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